The Altered Case

by Peter Turnbull

  A car . . . a car, yes, it was that had brought her north to York.

  It was Monday, 15.41 hours.

  THREE

  Tuesday, 11.10 hours – Wednesday, 01.10 hours

  in which a jovial man in a time warp is encountered, Somerled Yellich makes a worrying connection and Thomson Ventnor is at home to the most urbane reader.

  Third Georgian, thought Webster, as he and Ventnor slowly and purposefully approached the building, though he would stand corrected, fully conceding he was no architectural historian. It was, he thought, a proud and a confident-looking building, standing four square and solid with a protruding entrance way, the roof of which was supported by two large stone columns. The building was of three storeys, he noted, with a steeply angled roof. In front of the building was a wide expanse of pale pink gravel, which gleamed and glittered in the sunlight, and upon which were neatly parked motor cars of the ilk of Rolls Royce, Bentley, Porsche and Range Rover. Both officers saw what George Hennessey had meant when he had said, ‘Mind how you go, gentlemen, it’s reportedly a posh golf club, very well-to-do’. It was thus with some tongue-in-cheek insolence, wholly approved of by a grinning Ventnor, that Webster parked the small two door police Ford between a Ferrari and Daimler. Leaving the car with one window wound partially down to allow the interior to ‘breathe’, the two officers walked across the car park, noisily crunching the gravel surface, and entered the cool hotel-like interior of the clubhouse of the York and Malton Golf Club.

  ‘If you have identification, please, gentlemen?’ The steward of the golf club wore a dark-coloured blazer with a military association badge on the breast pocket, a neatly pressed blue shirt and tightly knotted black tie, which was held to his shirt with a gold tiepin. He wore sharply creased grey flannel trousers and highly polished black shoes. His hair was close cropped and he was clean-shaven, smelling gently of aftershave. The steward was, guessed Ventnor, about fifty years of age, but he still enjoyed a trim and enviable athletic build. He inspected Ventnor’s card closely but politely declined to look at Webster’s saying that if one is genuine then so will be the other. Then he added, ‘Yes, gentlemen, Mr Edward Evans is indeed a member here,’ speaking with a slight trace of a Welsh accent pronouncing ‘here’ as ‘yur’.

  ‘Is he here at the moment?’ Ventnor slid his warrant card back inside his jacket pocket and glanced around him at the highly polished wood surfaces of the furniture and the wall panels, and he savoured the scent of furniture polish.

  ‘I don’t believe he is, sir,’ the steward replied briskly. ‘He is expected, though. I do hope there is no trouble?’

  ‘Oh, always plenty of trouble.’ Webster smiled, keeping eye contact with the serious-minded steward. ‘Enough to keep us gainfully employed, but we seek only to pick Mr Evans’ brains. He is not under any suspicion, we can assure you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ventnor added, ‘you may rest easy on that score.’

  ‘I see.’ the steward inclined his head. ‘I am relieved to hear that, for Mr Evans’ sake as anyone else’s. I have always found him to be a kindly gentleman, a little flamboyant and without the sense of reserve of the greater part of the membership, but kindly, and a gentleman of ethical steadfastness when it comes to the important things in life. I ask because the committee will not like the police coming to the clubhouse for any other reason than the reason you gentlemen have given.’

  The police, thought Ventnor, can go anywhere we damn well please, and beside him he sensed Reginald Webster stiffen as he too contained his anger, but he said, ‘We seek only his advice on a matter, nothing more.’

  The steward smiled. ‘Well, perhaps you two gentlemen would care to wait in the lounge? A tray of coffee or tea perhaps?’

  ‘Tea,’ Ventnor replied, ‘tea for me, please.’

  ‘Same please,’ Webster added. ‘Thank you.’

  The steward showed the officers into the lounge of the clubhouse which they found looked out over the car park and the approach road beyond. The view being obtained through two rectangular sash windows which Ventnor estimated to be probably twelve feet high, reaching almost from floor to ceiling and each about three feet wide. The lounge was at that moment occupied by just six other members, all men, Webster noted, all reclining in leather armchairs, one or two of whom glanced at the officers once and then forgot them, but most of the members ignored Webster and Ventnor completely. In response to their icy reception, the two officers glanced at each other and smiled as they sat in a corner seat, near the door, in front of a highly polished low, circular, wooden table. A bar ran the length of the lounge opposite the windows and the elderly barman, in a white shirt, black tie and scarlet waistcoat, looked at the officers curiously. Ventnor and Webster sat in silence, growing to enjoy the library-like quiet which had developed in the room. It was, they felt, a silence of mutual respect rather than the highly stressed silence of things unsaid. It was, they found, a very relaxing atmosphere and both Webster and Ventnor saw then the attraction of spending a weekday afternoon at the golf club if one had the luxury of sufficient time to spare. A young woman in a long-skirted maid’s outfit with a starched white apron approached Webster and Ventnor carrying a tray upon which was a large teapot, milk, two cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. ‘With the compliments of the club, gentlemen,’ she said as she lay the tray upon the circular table and then quietly withdrew.

  Webster and Ventnor enjoyed the tea and biscuits whilst relaxing in the leather-bound armchairs looking out at the view the window offered.

  ‘Red Kite.’ Webster indicated a bird wheeling above the field adjacent, to the right of the approach road, against a backdrop of blue sky.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Ventnor helped himself to another chocolate digestive biscuit, pleased that they were the darker, plain chocolate, variety. ‘It’s a hawk of some sort though, that I can tell.’

  ‘It’s the fan-shaped tail,’ Webster advised, ‘that’s how you can tell the Red Kite from other similar sized raptors.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were a birdwatcher.’ Ventnor reached for a copy of Yorkshire Life which lay on the wide window sill.

  Webster also took a biscuit from the plate. ‘I’m not, not any more. I used to dabble when I was a teenager, so I still remember things, but I never got to see a Peregrine Falcon in flight. They’re the fast jets of the avian world. They can fly at in excess of two hundred miles an hour. That’s on the list of things to do before I sleep my final sleep . . . to see a Peregrine Falcon in flight.’

  ‘Still plenty of time . . .’ Ventnor stopped talking as the steward approached.

  ‘This is Mr Evans now, gentlemen –’ the steward indicated towards the car park – ‘the Bentley.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ventnor glanced out of the window as did Webster. They watched as a two-tone Bentley, black over bronze, of late 1950s’ vintage, entered the car park and was parked neatly between two Volvos. A portly, golden-haired man dressed in a light-coloured suit with ‘plus four’ trousers got out of the car, as did a noticeably younger woman who tottered round the rear of the Bentley on four-inch heels, hooked her arm into his, and then together they walked across the car park towards the golf clubhouse.

  ‘I will introduce Mr Evans.’ The steward turned and walked towards the foyer.

  Webster grinned at Ventnor. ‘Methinks I am going to like Mr Evans muchly.’

  ‘Methinks likewise.’ Ventnor returned Webster’s wide grin. ‘Methinks likewise and, as you say, muchly so.’

  A few moments later the steward of the golf club returned in the company of Edward Evans and his younger, much younger, lady companion. Webster and Ventnor stood smartly and shook Mr Evans by the hand as he was introduced. Evans then introduced his lady friend as Molly. Molly, guessed the officers, was in her mid-thirties, slender, but yet should, they both thought, be in the next larger dress size. Evans despatched Molly to the bar with a wholly politically incorrect, though playful, slap on her bottom, saying, ‘Men talk, sweetheart.’ Mo
lly tottered obediently and indignantly towards the bar in her wasp-waisted, below the knees, red dress.

  ‘It’s all part of the game,’ Evans explained. ‘Couldn’t act like that these days but that’s the joy of the people I mix with . . . the clothing, the old car . . . the floozy of whom the wife would not approve. I tend to introduce Molly as my niece, but I know it wouldn’t wash with two worldly-wise officers of the law.’

  ‘Probably wouldn’t,’ Webster replied, ‘but it wouldn’t be any of our business anyway.’

  ‘Whatever . . . Shall we sit down?’ Evans took a seat by the table. Webster and Ventnor also sat. ‘I like to feel I am in that era, the late 1950s, when rock and roll was the thing, Macmillan was the prime minister, the Suez Crisis, Cold War, and me, at my age, with a floozy of her age.’ Edward Evans glanced at Molly who was by then perched on a bar stool in front of a gin and tonic and seeming to Webster and Ventnor to be growing in indignation. ‘She’s a lovely lady but the dragon would not approve.’

  ‘The dragon?’

  ‘The wife,’ Evans explained with a sigh. ‘She’s a little highly strung and capable of throwing real tantrums. I mean it is “Bikini State Red . . . real DEFCON One” if she gets even a little bit angry, so I have to be discreet, even making a detour before I pick up Molly in case the Dragon has put a private eye on my trail. She’d do that, you know, she really would. The Dragon lost all interest in our marriage years ago . . . on every level . . . but does all she can to keep me reigned in. But, a blessing is this: she is not interested in the Fifties set.’

  ‘The Fifties set?’ Ventnor queried.

  ‘It’s a group of eccentrics . . . I belong to the Yorkshire chapter. We meet once or twice a month or so dressed in 1950s’ clothing and drive 1950s’ cars if we can. My car is actually a 1962 model but the design dates from the 1950s . . . so we “jive” the afternoon away. We go on outings every now and again and once hired a 1950s’ double-decker bus and went to Scarborough for the day. The owner of the bus wouldn’t drive her “baby” as she called it, at more than thirty miles an hour . . . and this was a Bank Holiday Monday . . . so by the time we arrived at the coast we had quite a stream of angry motorists behind us . . . really quite a following. We had an afternoon in Scarborough, all the boys in baggy trousers and double-breasted jackets and all the girls in long flowing skirts and dresses.’

  ‘Sounds fun.’ Webster was encouraged that Evans seemed willing to relax in the company of himself and Ventnor. He thought it augured well for a cooperative member of the public.

  ‘It’s great fun, it’s what the Brits are good at, producing eccentrics, and I get to pat Molly on her bottom . . . 1950s’ attitudes you see. So, the steward said that you wanted some information from me, want to pick my brains, what’s left of ’em. So I’ll just go and get myself a nip.’ Evans indicated the bar. ‘You two gentlemen don’t want . . .?’

  ‘Can’t, sir,’ Webster replied warmly, ‘we are on duty, but thanks anyway.’

  ‘Very well.’ Edward Evans stood and walked confidently to the bar, next to where Molly was sitting, ordered a whisky with dry ginger and another gin for Molly, with whom he exchanged a few words and then returned to the table where Webster and Ventnor waited. Seated once more, he asked, ‘So how can I help you? Pick away.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Pick, pick away.’

  ‘We understand you used to own Evans and Marshall Plant Hire Co.?’

  ‘Yes, founded the business, built it up from scratch and sold it for our retirement money. That’s the way to really make money, start a business and build it up, then sell it as a going concern. The Batemans will have to work for longer than we did before they recover their investment, but if they play the game they’ll sell it on for their retirement money.’

  ‘Yes, we met Mr Bateman junior, or rather our boss did. He put us on to you.’

  ‘Nice young fella. He’s a member here but he doesn’t play . . . one arm you see. He or his father can’t help you? I am well out of touch these days.’

  ‘No, unfortunately they can’t.’ Webster leaned forward. ‘You see, this is the tricky bit, or as our boss would say, “this is a long shot”, but as he would also say, “they’ve paid off before”.’

  ‘So shoot away.’ Evans grinned. ‘Let’s see where we get. I do so love an adventure. I’m in my seventies now but I’m still game for an adventure.’

  ‘Well, sir.’ Webster opened his notebook. ‘This is going back a way but we would like to know if you can recollect a particular transaction, a hire of machinery some thirty years ago this month.’

  ‘Thirty years ago this month . . .’ Evans pursed his lips. ‘That would be just before we sold the company. I might recall a particular transaction but only if it had some distinct aspect to it, or if it had some personal significance for me or my partner, or for the company as a whole . . . or if it was memorable in some other way . . . unusual sort of customer, for example, that sort of thing.’

  ‘All right,’ Webster replied, ‘we might be able to help you there. Can you go back thirty years . . .?’

  ‘I think so . . . I’ll try . . . I like going back in time, the Fifties set and all that. So, thirty years ago I was a sprightly forty-seven years of age, our marriage still had a semblance of life about it . . . the old flame of passion . . . hot, hot passion had not been entirely extinguished. Heavens, we even slept in the same bed in those days. Now it’s not just separate beds but separate rooms for us. We still eat together, though, we manage to do that. The children were still at home, just. I can recall that period . . . it’s beginning to come back. I recall that period, not as halcyon days, though. I recall the bad weather, the flooding . . . I remember the car breaking down. I ran an old Vauxhall in those days; the Bentley out there is or was a pre-retirement present to myself. I saw her advertised as a “classic”, so called, in a specialist car magazine and drove down to Devon to collect her. I brought her back on a trailer pulled by a company Land Rover, but I paid the diesel out of my own pocket . . . that kept it legal.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Well, it was that time; we were selling to the Batemans. The discussions were at a very early stage and it was a year or two before we completed, but we wanted them to purchase clean books. So, yes, I recall the era quite well . . . it’s all coming back. So, the transaction you are interested in, what can you tell me about it?’

  ‘It was the hire of a small digger, a Bobcat 322 we believe.’

  ‘Yes, I know the type, used for entrenching or ditch clearance.’ Evans sipped his whisky. ‘It’s the smallest type of plant available.’

  ‘So we believe,’ Ventnor said.

  ‘Yes, we had those machines. We had six; they were, probably still are, very popular little beasts. In fact, we soon recovered our purchase price on the Bobcats, which fact might be a hindrance to you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Webster asked, ‘in what way?’

  ‘Well, their popularity you see. We had many customers wanting to hire those things,’ Evans explained. ‘They came in and they went straight back out again. They were in such demand that we barely had time to give them a quick hose down and basic service before they were hired out again. I mean, they were in such demand that it was not at all unusual for a customer to say “don’t bother washing it, we need it yesterday”.’

  ‘I see . . . could complicate things as you say.’ Webster tapped his ballpoint on his notepad. ‘Can I ask how your customers paid?’

  ‘Cheque, or credit card . . . or sometimes charged to their account.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Always.’ Evans nodded. ‘Always any one of those three methods.’

  ‘This customer didn’t,’ Webster replied. ‘If he hired from you and didn’t go out of the area to hire plant from another company, then this customer, the one who interests us, paid in cash, hard cash, and our boss saw one such entry in the ledger. It is likely to be our man.’

  ‘So a hard cash transaction, thirty years ago this month,’ Ventnor pr
ompted.

  ‘There will be a name in the ledger,’ Evans queried, ‘surely that would be a logical trail for you to follow?’

  ‘It will be a false name,’ Ventnor explained. ‘The Bobcat was used . . . so we believe . . . in respect of a commission of a crime.’

  ‘Oh.’ Evans sat back in his chair. ‘I see, so hence the police interest?’

  ‘Hence the police interest,’ Ventnor echoed. ‘That’s why we are here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Evans took another sip of his whisky. ‘Do you know, I do think I am able to recall that hire . . . it was, as you say, unusual in that the payment was in hard cash.’ He moved his right hand in a slow, circular motion. ‘Let me see if I can bring it back.’

  ‘Take your time, sir,’ Webster encouraged, ‘but details are crucial.’

  ‘Of course, the Devil is in the detail and all that, but I need more of this stuff though.’ He raised his empty glass of whisky. ‘You know the most untrue thing of all? Shall I tell you?’

  ‘Tell us,’ Ventnor replied.

  ‘That you can drink to forget, because just the opposite happens, believe me. If you drink enough booze you start to remember things. That’s true, take it from me.’ Evans stood. ‘I’ll be back in just one little jiffy.’

  Edward Evans once again walked across the carpeted floor to the bar, ordered a drink and chatted to Molly, who was observed to shrug her shoulders at whatever it was he said to her, and he then returned, drink in hand, to the corner table where Webster and Ventnor sat. Evans sat down looking pleased with himself. ‘Do you fellas know, I do think I can recall that hire.’

  ‘Really?’ Ventnor smiled. ‘It would be very useful, crucial in fact, if you can.’